All day long, Langhorne addressed variations of the same question: What was the purpose of all this?
To which she would reply, “The purpose is to have a purpose.”
“That’s it?” Julian Noteiro asked on Day One. “So what we’re doing is just totally arbitrary?”
“Not at all, Julian. We are preserving certain familiar archetypes-just as our bodies are preserving human physical characteristics, which are equally obsolete. We are doing this because each of us is an archive of human traits-a walking, talking time capsule-and someday our survival as a species may depend on how much we remember of being human.”
“But what if we don’t want to be human?”
“Then we may forfeit that choice forever. That’s the challenge we must confront: whether to jettison the mortal definition of humanity-its ‘soul,’ if you will-or try to preserve it. Life as a Xombie is very inviting-we all feel the pull. No need to think, no need to worry or wonder or doubt. No need to do anything but float in eternal bliss-that euphoria which some of you have taken to calling the ‘Gulf of Toyland.’ The problem is, our minds are not equipped for infinity, and I believe there’s a danger of getting lost in it, losing our way back. The only landmark in all of time is our residual humanity-that’s our sole point of reference, our one small island in an eternal sea. Lose touch with that, and we drift out into the unknown, our finite consciousness expanding outward until it disperses like smoke, leaving our bodies empty vessels, ripe for plucking by whatever alien will is constantly insinuating itself upon us. In other words, we will become true zombies-that’s zombies with a ‘z’-mindless slaves to that controlling intelligence.”
“How do you know that intelligence isn’t God?”
“Yeah,” others agreed, “maybe it’s God. Maybe we’re supposed to submit to His will.”
“Maybe,” Langhorne said. “Or maybe it’s the Devil, did you think of that? Although in a contest between the Devil and Uri Miska, I’d put my money on Miska.”
At lunchtime, I went into the cafeteria. There was no food being served, but many students had brought their own lunches, according to instructions. Since Xombies only needed a tiny fraction of all this food we were eating, most of it passed right through us undigested. The bathrooms became popular student hangouts.
In the cafeteria, I noticed something odd. Blues and Clears were not sitting together.
All my original Dreadnauts had assembled at one table, and I automatically went over there.
“What’s going on?” I asked Julian Noteiro.
He was tentatively peeling a hard-boiled egg. I wondered where he had found it. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean why is the room divided up like this?”
“Oh, that. Yeah. I didn’t really notice.”
I went to a table of Clears and sat down. These were all boys from the boat, not strangers, and I knew most of their names. Speaking to a guy named Virgil Kinkaide, I asked, “Why aren’t you guys sitting with any Blues?”
They ignored me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I believe I asked you a question.”
Instead of answering, they all got up and stationed themselves at another table. Intrigued, I followed and sat down with them again. When they tried to get up once more, I grabbed Virgil by the ear and slammed his head down on the table, pinning his neck with my elbow.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he squealed.
“What is this? Why can’t I sit with you?”
“You’re Blue.”
“What?”
“Blues and Clears don’t sit together. Go sit at a Blue table.”
“Are you serious?”
“Blues sit with Blues, Clears sit with Clears-everybody knows that.”
“Why?”
He seemed reluctant to answer.
“Who came up with this?”
“All of us. Yesterday, on the bus.”
“I wasn’t on the bus.”
“Well, now you know. So deal with it.”
Interesting, I thought.
After lunch we had Gym, which initially consisted of tryouts for various sports teams: football, baseball, track and field, gymnastics. I recoiled from any of these, having only negative associations with school athletics programs. But there was also to be a marching band. When I saw that the band consisted entirely of Clear guys, I immediately signed up.
“You can’t do that,” said the Clear band captain, a bearded Ex named Henry Bartholomew, whose nephew Jake was one of my best Blues.
“I just did.”
“Well, go and unsign. We’re full up.”
“I’m staying. So deal with it.”
“There’s no way. What are you, ten years old?”
“I’m eighteen.” But he refused to admit me until I said, “I have an idea. Why don’t you go complain to Principal Albemarle?”
Instead of facing big blue Ed, he disbanded the band. After that, the Clears withdrew from most official school activities, forming clubs of their own.
I could sympathize to a degree. In this world, Blue was normal; Blue was the mainstream. Clears could, of course, choose to look Blue, camouflage themselves to resemble everyone else, but that required constant effort on their part, a burden none of the rest of us was subjected to. So it was either accept the strain of conforming, or give up and be… different. They chose to be different.
I chose to join the cheerleading squad. I was intrigued by the idea of being a cheerleader, as it was something I never would have considered in my mortal life, when my physical awkwardness, small size, and bad attitude relegated me to the society of misfits, making anything to do with sports or “school spirit” loathsome. Also, my mother called cheer-leading “Red State porn.”
After school, Lemuel came up to me, and haltingly asked, “D’uh, hey, Lulu, would you like to go to the malt shop with me?”
“Jesus, Lemuel, cut the moron act.”
“Sorry-it’s just that Dr. Langhorne wants us to stay in character. We’re supposed to be examples to the others.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“Well… ”
“Because I’m not really your girlfriend, you know. I mean, if there even is such a thing anymore as boyfriends and girlfriends. I don’t have those feelings; I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have those feelings, or you just don’t have those feelings for me?”
“I don’t know. What the hell difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to me.”
“Fine! I have no feelings.”
Lemuel seemed slightly placated. “So how about the malt shop? A bunch of us are going.”
“Yeah, sure, why not? Malt shop-unbelievable!”
When we arrived at the malt shop, the joint was humming-literally. There was a large generator out front spewing exhaust. But the power was on, the neon sign was lit, and the jukebox was playing “Sugar Sugar.” It looked cozy and hospitable, but once inside I could see that Blues were only sitting with Blues, and Clears with Clears. Sal DeLuca sat slumped at the lunch counter, arguing with Emilio Monte, who was dressed like a short-order cook.
“I ain’t makin’ no fifteen hamburgers,” Emilio said.
“But you have to,” Sal insisted, pointing his finger at the pages of a comic book. “It’s right here. It’s my character.”
“I don’t care if it’s your character, the point is I got no meat, kid. No meat, no buns, no cheese, no lettuce, no onions, no tomato. Also no gas to cook it on, you understand? All I got is whatever’s left in tin cans. The refrigerators work, but there ain’t nothing in ’em. You bring me a cow and a charcoal grill, and I’ll make as many hamburgers as you can eat.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“Ah,” Monte said, raising a finger. He leaned down behind the counter and emerged with a box of crackers and a big glass jar. “How do you feel about pickle chips on stale Saltines?”
Before Sal could reply, the door burst open. From out of the darkness, a large, skinned carcass slid across the checker-tiled floor, leaving a red swash. It was a deer-a big buck.